The Road to Blackthorn Cove

Rain lashed the windshield as Evelyn Hart's tires crunched over gravel, the fog so thick she could barely see the road. Her sister's voice crackled through the car speakers, trapped in a decade-old voicemail: "Don't come back, Evie. Promise me." She'd played it 27 times since leaving the city. 

The town welcomed her with a vandalized sign: "BLACKTHORN COVE – POP. 892" scrawled over with red paint: "BEWARE THE SISTERS." Evelyn's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The last time she'd seen that phrase, it was stitched into the hem of her sister's nightgown. 

She parked outside the lighthouse, its skeletal frame leaning into the mist. The air smelled of salt and decay. As she stepped out, a thread snagged on the car door—a frayed scrap of navy fabric, identical to her sister's favorite scarf. 

Coincidence. It has to be. 

But when she reached for it, the wind swept it into the fog. 

On the cliffs above, a man in a charcoal overcoat watched her. He sketched the lighthouse in a leather journal, pausing to study Evelyn through binoculars. A cufflink glinted at his wrist: a silver needle piercing a crescent moon.